


The Cherpumple Challenge

by Mod J (AlienNerd)



Series: Meanwhile, It's Calm [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), James "Bucky" Barnes - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier - Fandom
Genre: Birthday Cake, Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, F/M, Fluff and Angst, METAL ARM, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-23 03:44:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11981439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlienNerd/pseuds/Mod%20J
Summary: After a rough start, Reader & Bucky bake a cake together.





	The Cherpumple Challenge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Everyone Reading It](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Everyone+Reading+It).



> My attempt at fluff.
> 
> I'm sorry.

' _Goddammit!'_  His chrome fist crackled with electricity less than a millimeter from the mirror’s surface and he strained against himself, wanting to punch and knowing it wouldn’t do any good.

“Who the fuck are you?!” He wailed. “What are you?! What are you even doing?! I want my life back, I want myself back!!”

Bucky dropped his arm and grasped the rim of the sink. “Who the fuck am I now?” He questioned the silence.

Ever since coming to in that garage, his head had been just swirling in a vortex of memories. Everything about what happened was awful including the way he now appreciated not knowing, not remembering; just following orders and completing his purpose. He could remember teaching other assassins with confidence, killing with no qualms, accepting their lies for so so long.

When he thought about that feeling after a jolt from the Mind Crown, which he thought about upon waking every day, that fresh, alert, empty, blank, _clean_ feeling, he felt a vertigo and nausea so strong he spent most of the morning vomiting and wanting to just…be put back to sleep. Good sleep, not this paralyzing hell he goes through every morning.

Which made everything worse, considering everything Steve had gone through for him.

He knew that it wasn’t he, himself, Bucky, that had done those things, that he’d literally had no control over his body. Being in the back seating watching it all was so sickening… so many of them had no idea he’d be coming, he has so many memories of ending people's lives, easily, like flipping a switch and shutting off the lights.

And of all the things they can do nowadays, time travel is still a no-go, so there was no returning to the Bucky he was before enlisting. He would just have to live with it, live and know he’ll never be that Bucky Barnes again ( _’…there’s no going back’_ a malicious voice in his head whispers, _‘you can’t get it back…’_ ), live with it all inside him, live and carry all the memories with him each day from now until…

“I gotta do this…I gotta do this for him.” Bucky breathed. ’Take deep slow breaths.’ he thought. He closed his eyes and pictured Steve’s honest and beautiful face. That smile that just radiates with joy.

Maybe things can’t be the way they were and maybe they’ll never be perfect. But maybe things can be…ok. If he can push away the dark in his head, focus on that light Steve stands in, focus on the things that light up with positivity around Steve, he’ll never have to be alone with it all and that’s worth something, right?

But Steve is unavailable right now, he’s off doing even more for Bucky, negotiating his return to the US. All Bucky has is Y/N. He gives thanks to goodness for Y/N. You have fun, get along well, you have so much in common in the most unlikely ways, but he always wonders how much of being close to him is too much. Is he making your job harder, do you think of him as a client, a patient, a subject or a friend?

You’re currently lovers and Bucky knows Steve wouldn’t be mad about that. But how much can he depend on you and still call himself a man?

He shakes his head and turns on the water. The last time he made a comment like that around you, you turned on him stridently and said “Hey, you deserve good mental health just like anyone else. Yes, even men need help time to time. I know you grew up in a different time but, all that I’m-so-manly-I-eat-trauma-for-breakfast stuff is only hindering you.”

~

He’s rinsing his face when you knock on the doorjamb. You came over here because you're aware this is one of Buck’s bad days. You’ve known each other a short while, but since you sleep together often you know while he loves sleeping, mornings can be hard for him.

He says it’s like being a tv that’s been turned on with the volume and the brightness all the way up in a dark quiet room. Waking in cryo is different, you drift up instead of off, he explained. The disorientation is so bad some days it takes him about three hours to roll out of bed, groom, eat and all the while having spells of vertigo and nausea.

“Bucky?” You say quiet and reassuring, “I’ve got some ginger tea when you're ready.”

The water shuts off and the door opens. His dark hair is a literal bird’s nest of a mess, it looks like he started to comb it then gave up. His almost turquoise eyes are red and puffy. He’s a big man but he somehow crumples into himself when he isn’t feeling well, appearing short and stocky instead of tall and thick with muscle on an athletic frame. Bucky wears a pair of socks, grey lightweight sweatpants, an undershirt and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. One of his pant legs is pushed up to his shin and on that same side, he’s slowly losing a sock, which is a ¼ of the way off his foot laying floppily in front of his toes. He’s pale and looks so miserable you could laugh with how much he projects how he feels without words. It's so relatable this mood he's in, even though it's magnified by 100% more suffering, you’ve never seen anything that needed a hug more.

“Here,” You say, “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen. I want to show you something.”

You push the warm mug into his hands, which he takes eagerly. He’s learned the power ginger has over stomachs and welcomes it. You lead him by the elbow to the kitchen, he slips onto a stool and you walk behind him rubbing his shoulders lightly in a reassuring gesture. You brush your fingers through his hair loosening tangles and then use the hair tie on your wrist to pull it up into a bun piled on the back of his head.

“Bucky, wanna make a cherpumple today?” You ask, sitting down to your coffee beside him. His accent isn’t too pronounced, but it’s rubbing off on you anyway.

He moves his head back just moving his neck, a movement that says ‘Say what!?’

“Make a what-what?” He asks, startled out of his sour mood. He literally can not tell what a cherpumple is or how it’s made. He, in fact, has never heard the word before now.

You turn around your phone in it’s holder and play the preloaded video. He doesn’t speak the entire time it plays, he just watched the young woman following through her recipe, sometimes shaking his head and sometimes making a closed mouth noise, “Uhnt Uhnt Uhn” that universal sound for ‘What a shame’.

When it’s done he sips the hot tea and says, “That’s a terrible mee-mee. I don’t think that joke is funny. People waste so much these days, you guys take all this food for granted, Y/N!” He looks at you with a look in his eye like a fatherly disappointment.

You shake your head slowly. “It’s not a prank, Bucky. It’s a real recipe and we are going to make one for Bruce’s birthday party. If we do it now and take it with us–"You start to say.

“Take it in what, a wheelbarrow? It’s enough cake for 50 people!” Bucky interjects hotly.

You laugh and say “You are exaggerating and it will be for about 30 people.”

“You’re actually serious!?” He almost shouted back.

“Yes!” You say emphatically,“Besides you could stand to do something recreational. It’ll be fun.”

He flashes a charming grin. “Listen, sweet pea, all you had to do was ask. My mind may be a little off-kilter, but my body don’t quit and there ain’t ever been anythin’ wrong with my libido, baby.” He’s leering a bit and if a modern man tried this it would be disgusting, but this guy…

You roll your eyes and say, “I mean fun outside the bedroom. You know, I’m starting to wonder if this is really because you just don’t know how to cook and don’t want to embarrass yourself.”

When he’s feeling stubborn nothing gives him a boot to the ass like a mild challenge. Sometimes you’re sure he learned it from Steve.

He crooks an eyebrow and says,“I’ll have you know, I can cook and I cook really good. It may have been ladies work to the upper classes but in poverty finding enough food is work for everyone; kids, women, the elderly. Everyone chipped in and yeah, even little boys helped with the cooking. I’ll have you know some more, I can cook Spanish, Italian, Jewish, Polish and Irish dishes in circles around you. Let’s go to the grocery store!” He’s already rolling up his sleeves.

Bucky’s eyes are sparkling a bit. His color has come back and he seems like he’s broken out of the funk he woke up in. Your heart soars every time you can distract him from the pain he is in. Mostly it’s such a pleasure to be with him, you feel so lucky sometimes that it’s a gift to you to be of help. He makes you feel like such a good person and you love doing the same for him.

You wish he didn’t need it, that he could wake up and just love himself one day, but you know it doesn’t work that way. He’s got to fight every inch now for everything positive he wants. It’s up to the people in his life to help him equip himself and you’re honored to be one of those people. He’s so beautiful and it hurts your heart that he can’t see it.

“Yeah! Let’s cook this monstrosity! I stocked all the ingredients last time I went to the grocery, so what do you say? We’ll put on some music. I promise when you taste it, you love it.” You say with a giggle.

You start laying things out and he just can’t help himself, immediately making comments like “That’s almost the whole dozen!” and “That much cinnamon, how’s that supposed to be tasty?!” But then you put on the radio and his mood further shifts from ‘We-can’t-do-this’ to ‘Let’s-do-this!’.

You measure and he mixes, pausing sometimes between ingredients to do a little swing dance move, crossing his right foot behind his left and doing a little twirl in place to the late 70’s tunes coming from the speakers. At one point he threw his hands up and did a little bouncing thrust move to Everybody Dance by Chic. You burst out laughing, you never seen someone this confident in their dance moves.

“What!?” Bucky says smiling, startled out of his groove.

“Nothing!! I’m sorry. It’s just really great seeing this kind of dancing.” You say measuring flour for the next batch of cake batter.

He uses his the back of his hand, silicone spatula still in it, to brush at a spot on his cheek leaving behind a little patch of white flour there. “Oh, yeah, dancing was a huge past time in those days. There were so many kinds, it was really wild.”

“That’s sounds great. I’ve got a feeling you got a lot of music to catch up on, huh?” You reply helping him pour the spice cake batter over an apple pie in one of the three pans; 1 down, 2 to go.

“Oh, yeah. So far I’ve heard something of Queens of the Stone Age, Nine Inch Nails and Deftones, which, well, I guess you could dance to those but may be a different sort of dancing.” he says flattening the batter over the pie.

You try to imagine Bucky listening to the slightly erotic desert rock of QOTSA and you get images of him pulling some pole dancer-esque Magic Mike moves. You feel three pulse-like throbs below the waist and blush so hard you can feel it making your forehead tingle. You take the bowl and rinse it at the sink so you guys can start mixing the vanilla cake.

You get that one set up with more pauses for dance moves from the both of you and you wash up the measuring and mixing implements getting them ready for the next cake, the white with a cherry pie inside.

You take a quick break between mixing the next cake; he has some more tea and a scone, you have coffee and a cup of yogurt. Before returning to the kitchen you switch up the music going with an instrumental pop Pandora station. Bucky removed his long sleeve and just wears a sleeveless undershirt with his sweats.

The cooking is a bit quieter this time, the two of you enjoying the piano version of Heroes by David Bowie. You find yourself watching his every move at times like these. His strong dexterous hands gently distributing the ingredients as he mixes, the muscles in his neck shoulders and arm flexing and uncoiling smoothly, his other arm, for all it’s fluidity and seamless movement still existing in the uncanny valley, it whirs softly and clicks as metal plates shift and brush each other, the mild attentive look on his face, his bright lovely eyes catching the light, the faint upward tilt to the corners of his mouth.

Once each cake and pie are settled in their pans, you set timers for when the baking should be done and another for when to rotate two cakes from the bottom to the top and you settle into watch Planet Earth. Bucky falls asleep part way through and you let him snooze whilst checking the cakes till they’re done. When they are, you set them on racks to cool.

As you do you hear Bucky’s breathing quickening and sharpening: a sure sign he’s having a tough time waking up.

You mute the tv and rush to his side, take his right hand in yours and put your hand to his cheek. In a quiet calm voice you say, “Hey, everything’s ok, take your time. You are safe, there are no threats. You fell asleep watching some nature documentaries. You’ve been sleeping about 25 minutes. You’re lying on the couch in the parlor of your suite in Wakanda. Take a deep breath for me. Do you smell that? It’s the cakes we were baking. Breath slowly and open your eyes when you are ready.”

His breathing slows and he squeezes your hand in his right. He squeezes hard at first, almost on the verge of panic. He takes in your words nodding, still unable to speak. He slowly opens his eyes a little by little taking quick peaks at your face, reassured no one has come to drag him off to the Mind Crown as you’ve learned what the Russian memory erasing device is called. He’s always afraid on waking up that he’ll be there being wiped again and given a new mission that, even if he refuses, his body may just carry out anyway.

He lies quietly just holding your hand, looking around a little then closing his eyes for a few seconds. His grip loosens slowly and he takes in a shuddering long breath.

“Ughk, hate that feeling.” He croaks. Tears squeeze out from under his eyelashes and roll down the creases at the corner of his eyes.

“It’s ok. There’s no right and wrong way to experience trauma and it’s after affects. I’m here for you, so you don’t have to do it alone. Do you need ginger tea?” You respond.

“No, my stomach seems ok. It’s so bright, though.” He says.

You smile a little. “Sorry, Buck. We can’t turn the sun down, but I’ll go draw the shades. Just let yourself adjust here, don’t sit up yet, just ground with your senses for a few minutes, ok?”

“Y/N, thanks. Thanks for your help.” He says, sniffing and clearing his sinuses.

You walk over to the windows and balcony, shutting out some of the light. “Hey, no problem. I am here to help.” You come back to the couch, help him sit up a bit so you can squish in and rest his head on your leg.

“I know. And I think I need s-so many things, so m-much help... your job kinda confuses me, how much of this is work to you? How much is us? Are you my friend?” He says as he does you can sense him closing himself off a bit perhaps afraid he's exposing himself too much and becoming sullen.

“Aww, come on. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to. Yes, some of my work overlaps with the things I do for you because I want to. But put it this way, I get my cake and get to eat it, too. They pay me to do what I love.” You say, hair from his squinting eyes.

“Me?” He asks with a little smirk, his voice a little raspy, lifting both arms and wrapping them around your waist in a strange semblance of a hug. If he were standing up he’d be carrying you over his left shoulder as you held onto his head and face with your knees bent behind his head. The image is so silly to you, you smile down at him.

“Yeah, you.” You answer leaning down and kissing him in an upside down and slightly sideways kiss.


End file.
